Ghosts of the Past
by whirdart
Summary: A single scene (complete) of a certain moody professor and his hidden emotional breaks following the loss of his only love. (Snape)


He slammed the door behind him, causing the latch to skip and the great wooden frame to groan as the door creaked back open an inch. Taking a level breath and running his hands steadily through his shoulder-length black hair, the professor turned and placed his palms against the splintering wood, pressing the door firmly shut until the iron latch fell with a satisfying _click_. A flick of his wand and the shadows of the office vanished in the sudden glow of a roaring fire. It crackled merrily, as if it had been burning for hours, embers skipping from the grate and landing to smother in the dust of the stone hearth.

The fraying black cuff of his robes dragged along piles of parchment stacked in rows on his desk as he leaned heavily into his seat and attempted to collect his thoughts. He wrung his hands and drew down his thick brows so they blotted out the world around him—the jars of specimens in columns; the weeds and herbs, dried into brittle tufts and bound with twine; the bottles upon bottles, every color, size and shape, with and without labels, stoppered with cork and cotton; the windowless dungeon that he called his office.

His fist came down with a thunderous clap against a clear square of desk. _The arrogance of the boy! The pretentious pomp and entitlement! And what's worse, they all worshipped him—this child whose greatest accomplishment was a scar that told the tale of a bizarre fluke. For him to receive undeserving accolades based on the sacrifices of his mo—_

Bringing down his second fist, the professor cut short his thoughts. What good did it do to dwell in the past? Was he better than anyone else if he couldn't move on from that fateful day? Exhaling slowly from his hooked nose, he fanned a stack of parchment across his desk. There was homework to correct, work to be done. And so he withdrew a quill and inkpot and the echoing scratches of the quill's tip were only rarely punctured by the occasional pop of an ember from the fire. The professor became absorbed in his work, forgetting everything else and he leaned over the parchments so his spine curved against the decaying wood of his chair and his hair fell forward, like curtains, brushing the smooth surface of the paper with its greasy tips.

But the spell broke when he slid aside Pansy Parkinson's assignment and came face to face with the boy's mediocre homework.

 _To think, even that fool teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts was feeding into the nonsense! Giving the boy top marks, awarding him house points, and for what? For a thoroughly average ability to retain knowledge and standard spell casting_.

He looked down his beak-like nose at the scrawling paragraphs that lined the boy's parchment and the professor felt a weakness deep inside him. He cupped his hand to his lips and frowned heavily.

 _But that handwriting. Why did he inherit such obscure traits—the eyes, the handwriting?_

He stared longingly at the letter 'p' and that telltale whip at the tail end—just like…

The professor swept away the remaining assignments into a messy pile and crumpled his fists into his forehead. He tried vainly to stop his subconscious from reminding him, again, the date of his gravest error and the day he lost the only thing he'd ever loved. Over a decade had passed, but not even a week could slip by without the pain of loss crippling him. He turned his head so that his knuckles buried into his temple, and gazed again at her son's assignment. The letters were all so familiar. He had the same hands, the same strokes with a quill. Involuntarily, his eyes skipped over the desk to a miniature chest of drawers situated on the bottom of a tray of shelves lined with endless bottles and jarred organs. The middle drawer still contained the notes and letters she sent him. Lining the aging pages of those memories were her words and her writing—each one written just to him.

Fighting back the urge to release the spell that locked the drawer and pore over each delicate word, descending into hours of bittersweet reverie, he broke his stare and withdrew his wand. Wordlessly, he flicked the tip and from the end burst forth an ethereal light that formed almost immediately into a graceful doe. She stepped tentatively around the office, her head twisting elegantly on a long, slender neck.

He was standing by the desk when she approached him and bowed her head, sweetly, acknowledging his patience. For a moment they stared at each other—his glossy black eyes swimming sadly as they gazed forlornly into her iridescent transparency. Finally, he lifted his hand, stretching cautiously toward her and as his fingertips met the celestial curve of her face, she disappeared in a twinkling mist and he was utterly alone again in the harsh orange glow of the fire.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for taking the time to read this. It is a stand-alone piece, though I may create more peeks into certain HP characters to gain a little insight into their lives. Mostly I was just working on word play and trying to expand my abilities. I hope, however, that it evoked something in you and that you enjoyed it!


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